“Whew! these infernal things have set me reeking at every pore! Thank Heaven he remained no longer, or I should have run down into my boots. There’s not a dry rag on me.”
His wife indulged in a laugh, a vicious little laugh, most unpleasant to honest ears.
“Yet the ruse worked well, Amos,” she cried exultantly.
“Yes, apparently.”
“Apparently?”
“That’s what I said,” growled Badger, as the runabout passed out of view.
“What do you mean?” demanded Claudia, with quickened apprehension.
“I mean that there never is any knowing what Nick Carter thinks and suspects, however he may carry himself,” Badger petulantly replied. “He is one thing on the surface, another under it. There is no telling anything about him, and I’m infernally sorry that Weston has brought him over here.”
“Bah!” cried his wife contemptuously. “He can accomplish no more than the Boston detectives have done.”
“I’m not so sure of it.”